The Forsyte Saga(87)

She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney’s father, who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable ridicule. She alluded to him now that he was gone as her ‘poor, dear, irreverend brother’.

She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a mistress, a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her eminence in the commercial and Christian world could be afraid – for so slight a girl June had a great dignity, the fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs Baynes, too, shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of June’s manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been merely frank and courageous, Mrs Baynes would have thought her ‘cranky’, and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte, like Francie – let us say – she would have patronized her from sheer weight of metal; but June, small though she was – Mrs Baynes habitually admired quantity – gave her an uneasy feeling; and she placed her in a chair opposite the light.

There was another reason for her respect – which Mrs Baynes, too good a churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to admit – she often heard her husband describe old Jolyon as extremely well off, and was biased towards his granddaughter for the soundest of all reasons. Today she felt the emotion with which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance, nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the novelist, the young man should be left without it at the end.

Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old Jolyon’s health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and young looking, and how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never have thought it! They were at the sea! Very nice for them; she supposed June heard from Phil every day? Her light grey eyes became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl met the glance without flinching.

‘No,’ she said, ‘he never writes!’

Mrs Baynes’s eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they did. They recovered immediately.

‘Of course not. That’s Phil all over – he was always like that!’

‘Was he?’ said June.

The brevity of the answer caused Mrs Baynes’s bright smile a moment’s hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her skirts afresh, said: ‘Why, my dear – he’s quite the most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!’

The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out of this woman.

‘Do you see him?’ she asked, her face crimsoning.

The perspiration broke out on Mrs Baynes’s forehead beneath the powder.

‘Oh, yes! I don’t remember when he was here last – indeed, we haven’t seen much of him lately. He’s so busy with your cousin’s house; I’m told it’ll be finished directly. We must organize a little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night with us!’

‘Thank you,’ said June. Again she thought: ‘I’m only wasting my time. This woman will tell me nothing.’

She got up to go. A change came over Mrs Baynes. She rose too; her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to be afraid of asking questions – all organization was based on the asking of questions!

But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: ‘Old Mr Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!’

And this girl stood there, holding out her hand – holding out her hand!

The chance might be slipping away – she couldn’t tell – the chance of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.

Her eyes followed June to the door.

It closed.

Then with an exclamation Mrs Baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again.

Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression of real anger and mortification on her face.

June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She detested that woman now – whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so kind. Was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this torturing suspense?

She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had the right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she came to Bosinney’s number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully.